Page 3 of The Sweet Spot

The guy pushes the cage of his helmet up with one hand, and that's when any semblance of cool leaves my body.

His deep, dark eyes sparkle under the stadium lights as he makes his way toward me.

My core clenches... literally in front of all these people, I'm getting horny over a man dressed like a violent turtle.

Has it really been that long?

Five years now that I think about it.

The last time I even remotely tried to give my number to someone was Zach Evans, the quarterback for the Rome Raptors. The guy gave my number to his weird teammate who asked me if I wanted to come meet his mom because she was worried he was going to die alone.

So, yeah, that went nowhere.

When I catch his eye, he’s smiling.

My stomach does this annoying little flip, which irritates me immediately. How can I be standing in the middle of my own humiliation, thinking about the man who rushed me into the worst decision I’ve made all week—and wondering if he’d be capable of throwing me around a bedroom?

His smile stretches wider, his dimples cutting into his cheeks, and against all common sense, my brain briefly wonders if maybe he’s looking at me and not the disaster I just created.

It's only when he drops his gaze to the field that the flip in my stomach turns into a slow, horrible sink as though someone pulled a plug at the bottom of my torso and everything warm is draining out.

He's not smiling at me because he likes me. He's smiling because he's been trying to hold back a laugh.

He's laughing... at me. At my terrible throw and just how badly I embarrassed myself.

This absolute linebacker-shaped asshole is enjoying my humiliation.

My cheeks heat, and I clamp my jaw down in anger.

He's enjoying this.

He thinks it's funny?

I am NOT funny.

I am the number-one ranked female golfer in the world, and I did not come to this stadium to be someone's entertainment.

He stops right in front of me, and I have to look up to look him in the eye.

“You done?”

“Sorry?” He looks taken aback, bewildered, even.

I clench my fists, taking a deep breath before reverting to my staged smile as I'm sure there's a camera still on me somewhere.

“You find it funny that a little girl golfer couldn't throw a pitch to save her life?”

His mouth opens, and he blows out a surprised breath. Then he shakes his head as he starts to stutter, “That's not what I think at all.”

“Then why were you laughing all the way over here?”

“No. No. No. I wasn't laughing at you. I was, uh, well, I thought you—” He nods quickly, laughing to himself. “I just—I—wow, you’re much taller in person.”

“Excuse me?”

“You just looked shorter in that golf spread you did for Athlete Illustrated, and I was taken aback. I’m sure a lot of guys are around you.”

Athlete Illustrated? The last time I was on its cover was when I turned pro.